Before Christmas
by ElsaStoleMyPen
Summary: "I hated it all. I can't help it." Anna tells a story. [Elsanna. One shot. Modern AU. Rated K . Angst, character death. Not incest.]


**Before Christmas**

**A/N: **Sorry?

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Frozen or the characters. (Sadly, if I did, Elsa would be a great big rainbow.)

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><p>I hate Elsa. Her name was just too perfect.<p>

Her looks.

Her personality.

I hated it all. I can't help it.

-•-

I always thought that the people on TV exaggerated it. Always thought that there wouldn't be that much tears. Always thought that they'd at least get up to eat. Always thought that it wouldn't make them want to end themselves.

But she was always smarter than me and she told me it would be worse. I didn't believe her.

I should have.

Maybe that would have prepared me a little.

It wouldn't.

If I did, would it change anything?

No, it wouldn't.

She only told me the truth and sometimes I hated her for it, I still hate her for it. She knew that I hated it and that didn't help.

-•-

I still remember when I first met her, sometime before Christmas, she told me that my eyes reminded her of the colour on a deformed Christmas tree.

I laughed and she smiled, apologising for saying that out loud and she told me the deformed tree was the one in her own living room. She always made me laugh.

She was capable of doing the opposite.

Next year, a month before Christmas, she asked if I wanted to move in with her. I knew she were rich, I really did. With her own company and her occasional singing, she was bound to be wealthy. But her mansion amazed me.

The walls were simple, two blue stripes running along the white. But the expensive furniture wasn't what made me feel so attached to the place, it was the way everything was slightly customised.

It was so... her.

She were everywhere. The polished wood furniture all had little snowflakes etched near the bottoms or corners, the blue cushions and chairs were all in certain shades that were similar to her striking eyes, my favourite was always the shower curtains.

Cute little shower curtains with mini snowmen printed along them. The same curtains for all the bathroom.

There are times, especially recently, that I hate our home. It was still beautiful, not once had I touched it after the cleaning lady last came. She stopped coming when she realised nothing would ever be moved again. I stay at other peoples' houses. I don't dare to go back and face her. It hurts.

It.

Hurts.

So.

Much.

And I hate it.

-•-

We always had a special place, we found it a day before Christmas.

I was exploring with her in our planned six day camping trip.

We stumbled upon an unfinished tree house, so we built it together. Leaving our tents alone and painting the structure with blues and greens. Inside, we placed reds, oranges and yellows, laughing at how much it clashed. I liked it. The pots and beanbags and photos and small window was enough for me as long as she was there.

Our first real argument happened during the building of the tree house. She wanted it on the bigger tree nearby, but the one we decided on was already half finished, so I wanted to build on that. She accused me of always wanting my way, of always thinking about myself.

I guess she was right.

She always seemed to be right.

I hate that about her.

She proposed to me.

-•-

Before Christmas, the fourth one we'd spend together, she told me that she loved me and that she'd be spending the next four months on tour. She was going to miss my birthday and the anniversary, so we spent the night together.

I remember it so vividly.

I should have told her to stay.

I should have begged her not to leave.

Everything started to fall when she boarded the plane.

Piece by piece.

Bit by bit.

Slowly.

It was like a gaping hole under us and slowly each limb, each problem, each argument we buried under sex, everything fell in and I couldn't take it.

The guilt.

-•-

Two weeks before Christmas, she came back. I had waited for her when the tour was over. I stayed up all night.

All week.

All month.

Sitting on our bed, chewing my bloody finger nails. Falling in and out of sleep.

I checked every social media site. I checked her website. I called and texted her phone. I sobbed all alone into the empty pillows.

Was she okay?

Did she run away?

Why would she?

Scenarios flew around my head for three months after she was supposed to come back.

After, I knew she wouldn't be coming back. A quarter of a year wasted alone.

I thought she left me.

I continued with life, only this time, a bit differently. Saying hello to my personal assistant in the mornings with coffee, meeting up with friends during the weekend and spending hours after work to catch up with my missed days.

But I caught up within weeks, so I looked for her. I never found her.

She came back before I could find her.

She strolled in without her suitcases, a small smile upon her lips. Her head held high, before her shoulders slackened. Her hands clenched and her eyes turned stormy.

The guilt was back.

I shoved my assistant of my body. Running after her, my shirt forgotten in the room.

And I spun her around to face me before she could open another door.

She looked straight into me. I was always bare to her. Nothing to hide. Guess I never needed the shirt to begin with.

But she looked on.

Her cold eyes causing goose bumps along my arms.

Her eyes flickered to my exposed chest before digging her gaze into my eyes.

She searched.

Glaring at my beating heart for a moment before going back to scanning my eyes.

My feelings were all laid out in front of her.

Nothing to hide.

She knew that she had hurt me when she didn't come back. She told me she has found out she had cancer and wanted to let me live on without going through any more pain.

But what she did.

It was worse.

She knew that but she used my feelings against me.

There was absolutely

nothing

to

hide.

-•-

One week before that Christmas, she left.

She said it was for good.

She said I hurt her.

She said a lot of things.

Most of it was true.

Most of it hurt.

I fought for her. I fought for us. But to do that, I had to fight against her.

She left.

-•-

A day before the same Christmas, she came back to get her things.

I was allowed to keep the house and she'd pay, but I wasn't allowed to expect any feelings from her.

I did.

I guess that's my fault. I expected a lot of things.

But I was me and I blamed her. She stormed off again. Into the rain.

Torrents of water pounding against the pavement.

I shouted for her to come back.

I yelled an apology into the cold air.

I screamed for her.

For her.

-•-

At 11:52 before Christmas, I received a call.

An accident they said.

I still blamed her.

I still blame her.

Hit by a car in the rain.

I attended the funeral in a light blue dress.

Tears never came till a half year later and I wept then.

I regret a lot of things. Most of them to do with her and the things that happened.

_Before our last Christmas._

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><p><strong>AN:** I guess I've been feeling really bitter lately, only been reading angst. (I actually like angst a lot.) Anyways, I wrote some Christmas fluff and I evened it out with some angst, sorry?

Also, if you didn't get it, all the stuff Anna hates about Elsa is the stuff she loves about her.


End file.
